


the roads we know

by sacrr



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, major spoilers for arkham knight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-14 00:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5722585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacrr/pseuds/sacrr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing he thought he’d be doing tonight is racing across Gotham in a desperate effort to save Bruce’s life. Then again, if life has taught him one thing, it’s that nothing ever goes entirely according to plan.</p>
<p>Or: the one where Red Hood arrives at the Asylum in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the roads we know

+

Jason’s lost track of how long he’s been running, and yet he’s only too aware that time is slowly running out. Scarecrow’s fondness for monologues has bought him a few more minutes, but not enough. There’s still half a city between this rooftop and the ruins of Arkham Asylum and it’s a ravaged, broken city, its streets filled with armed soldiers and petty criminals. What’s more the city is _Gotham_ , which is bad news at the best of times.

But this is the city that Jason calls home, and the militia whose patrols he is so carefully dodging were once under his command. Part of what made his takeover so absolute was his encyclopaedic knowledge of Gotham’s alleyways and back streets, his insistence on securing the areas of the city which nobody else considered important.

He approaches the edge of the rooftop and instantly ducks back when he hears quiet voices in the alley below. Looking down he sees two men in deep conversation, their bodies cast into silhouette by a pool of greasy streetlight – not his own soldiers, the one on the right has an emblem on the back of his jacket which marks him out as one of Penguin’s band of gunrunners. Both are armed –Jason’s mask gives two low beeps as it finishes its analysis, outlining the pistols the men are wearing on their hips in dull orange.

He considers drawing his own sidearm and putting the men down, but the sound of gunfire might alert more of them and the last thing he wants to do is draw needless attention. Neither of the men is looking his way so he takes a silent step back, runs towards the edge and launches himself onto the neighbouring rooftop. He rolls into the landing with a former Robin's easy grace and, when he checks, the men haven’t moved from their stations.

Behind the visor, one corner of Jason’s mouth curls upwards.

Invisibility is a skill the streets taught him and one that Bruce took pains to refine. Some lessons, you don’t forget.

He gets to his feet and reaches for a button on the outside of his helmet, just above his right ear, and the projection of Bruce’s most recent location flashes up before his eyes. The pulsing red dot is still firmly focused in the reception area of Arkham Asylum. Despite the asylum’s derelict external appearance, Wayne Enterprises had taken a major role in the decommissioning of the building and Bruce had set up voice recognition systems and automatic lockdown procedures in the hope of making it impregnable. However, after a quick scan of the blueprints, Jason had spotted a vulnerability in the ventilation system which should give him a way in.

Of course, all his planning will be for nothing if he can’t get there in time. The mapping system whirrs for a moment, recalculating, before tracing an alternative path across the city which promises to be slightly faster. It’s essentially a straight line – a risky route with greater dangers, but right now every second counts.

Ironically, it’s a route Jason recognises.

He flicks off the projection before he spins on his heel and runs, leaving Penguin’s thugs far behind him.

He’s following a little-known path that Dick taught him years ago in the early days, and that he presumably taught the new Robin in turn. At the time Dick had called it the fastest way to cross the city, and the navigational systems on Jason’s helmet support what he had always considered to be an empty boast. Going along this path is a test of memory as much as a test of skill – it’s a dangerous maze of rusty fire escapes, loose roof slates and crumbling balconies that threaten to give way beneath his weight. He needs to choose each step with care, recall which tiles are safe to stand on and which stairs would creak beneath his feet, revealing his position. It’s been years since he last came this way, his knowledge is outdated and it shows – there are new buildings in his way, blocking him in, and wide gaps where the old used to stand. Jason’s much taller and heavier than he was at fifteen, and one iron railing in particular lets out an alarming screech when he grabs for it with one hand. His newfound mass is all muscle, however, and he grunts as he hauls himself upwards, and launches himself athletically from balcony to rooftop.

The first time he scaled a building, he was a grimy kid breaking into a house with an open window in the hope of finding something to pay for his mother’s medicine. He remembers scrabbling for handholds in the brick, sick with fear at the pull of gravity and the dizzying awareness of the lengthening drop below. He’d hauled himself inside and slumped, boneless, on the tiled bathroom floor, weak with relief, and it had been several minutes before he could move.

The last time he leapt between these rooftops he was rooted in Bruce’s shadow, wearing red and green and a ready smile. Somehow that’s the more painful memory.

The next jump is a tricky one, and Jason considers the required trajectory closely before approaching it at a sprint. The leap itself is perfect, the distance estimated precisely, but when his left foot hits the ground his ankle twists and he messes up the landing. He manages to catch himself before his face smacks into the concrete and his third helmet of the evening ends up a useless mess of plastic and glass, but it’s a close call. If he wasn’t wearing gloves, his palms would be covered in cuts and scrapes.

Jason forces himself to his feet and immediately stumbles, his mind whirling from lack of oxygen and sheer exhaustion. He needs to slow down. Clambering across the skyline of Gotham for at least half an hour has depleted his energy, and that’s on top of all the other craziness that’s happened tonight. He’s getting clumsy and he can’t afford to be. Bruce’s life depends on it.

That last thought brings him up short. Not that Bruce was ever unprofessional enough to get himself caught during Jason’s brief tenure as the Boy Wonder, but that was an especially... _Robin_ sentiment. Not even a day ago, if he’d possessed the knowledge that Bruce would die within the hour, Jason would have commandeered an APC or a chopper and crossed the city in a span of minutes if only for the pleasure of having a front row seat to watch the man bleed out. Or, better yet, taking the gun from whichever rookie had managed to corner the Batman and pulling the trigger himself.

Jason’s not saving Bruce because he cares about him, or because he’s remotely interested in the twisted version of redemption that Bruce will inevitably offer him in exchange.

It’s just that he doesn't want Bruce to die, and he’s not in the right mindset to ask himself why that is. He’s not sure if that’s Robin talking, or the Arkham Knight, or even the parts of his brain where his nightmares come from, which the Joker and his madness managed to worm their way into. There’s another voice in there now, born from the depths of his subconscious when Jason, on the verge of tears, had hesitated and lowered the gun that was aimed at Bruce’s skull.

He hadn’t killed Bruce, but he had turned and run from his former mentor’s outstretched hand. That means something he’ll find the energy to think about later, but at this moment his screwed up emotional state isn’t the priority.

Jason leans over in an attempt to recover his breath, gloved hands on the knees of his armour. He’s grown used to the synthesiser distorting the tone of his words, the sound of his breathing, and it’s disconcerting to hear his own gasps for air echoed back at him inside the helmet. It feels strangely claustrophobic.

Once he’s somewhat recovered, he straightens up and takes a look around: this is Miagani Island. No question, those are the neon lights of Grand Avenue twinkling a few blocks east of him. On the side of the building to his left is one of the huge plasma screens installed all over the city, which were originally put up a few years ago for news broadcasts and adverts and are now being hacked by the criminals of Gotham with alarming frequency. Nothing is being broadcast at the minute which is a relief, since that means Bruce is still alive. The Asylum is closer now, once a distant shadow on the edge of his radar, now a lean ugly building of dirty brick looming in the distance, the Gothic architecture and the semi-darkness giving it a particularly threatening aura.

The thought of walking inside that place again and being forced to relive the memories locked within its walls is almost enough to send him running back in the opposite direction.

The giant TV screen on the building adjacent to him suddenly flickers into life, breaking his train of thought, and there’s a loud squeal of interference from the nearby loudspeakers. The protection offered by the helmet blocks the worst of it out, but the noise is shrill enough to make Jason wince. When he turns his head to watch, the rough sacking and cloth of Scarecrow’s face is staring back at him.

_“There are none left to save you, Batman,”_ Scarecrow states. _“Not one of your allies is willing to be the final sacrifice on the altar of your hubris.”_

The camera pans across the room and zooms in on two men crouched on the ground, next to a bank of smashed computer monitors. Both are men that Jason would recognise anywhere, but for entirely different reasons.

Gordon’s aged terribly, he thinks wryly, eyeing his wrinkled brow and the bags under his eyes. But there’s a familiar spark of defiance that Jason recognises, as Gordon wraps an arm around the huddled form beside him and scowls up at his captor.

The camera only stays on the pair for a second or two, but Jason’s eyes are fixed on the other person in the frame for what feels like hours.

He’s wanted this Drake kid dead for years, dreamt most nights of being the one who put a bullet between his eyes, but right now Tim’s not the child genius who Jason has always pictured as his superior in every way, the brat who stole his home and family and uniform. Right now he’s a bloodied, half-conscious boy with an R on his chest, facing inevitable death at the hands of a psychopath with a video camera...

Not for the first time.

Fuck. _Fuck._

He can’t let Tim Drake die, either.

The camera jerks back to Bruce and Scarecrow continues, this time with a muted note of satisfaction in his voice. “You may as well surrender your identity now, Dark Knight. Your strength of will is admirable, but soon sheer terror will make your bravery futile.”

Bruce doesn't say anything. He isn’t looking into the camera – instead his gaze is focused slightly above it and to the right, at the point where Scarecrow’s face must be. The cowl does its job in disguising most of Bruce’s expression, but his lips are pressed together in a thin, displeased line. _The Bat-face_ , Dick used to call it. The Batman doesn't look afraid, far from it. Even after everything they’ve both suffered, Jason can’t help but be a little bit impressed by that.

The static hums again and the screen turns black.

Jason tries to pick himself up again, to keep going, but movement is suddenly far more difficult than it was before. His limbs move sluggishly, and weigh him down like they’re made of stone.

_Don’t forget that this is what he deserves,_ Joker purrs inside his head. _He left you to die, remember? Painfully, slowly, alone. Well, aside from little old me, of course. He forgot you and replaced you, and now you can return the favour. Listen to me, Jason. This is_ justice _._

Jason can sense the Knight nodding along in another part of his brain. It’s a logical argument.

And the worst part is that the Joker is completely right. Leaving Bruce to die on camera in a forgotten corner of Arkham Asylum is poetic justice, a perfect circle. It’s the most appropriate revenge imaginable and, what’s more, exactly what the man deserves.

But Jason can’t do it. He couldn’t kill Bruce earlier, and he can’t leave him to die now.

“It might be justice”, he breathes, the words forming mist on the inside of his visor. “But it isn’t _right_.”

The words sound ritualistic, like a mantra. The kind of phrase to be repeated in the future, in times of need.

Bruce believes in justice. Jason believes in right. It’s always been a source of contention between them, and now the ways have thoroughly parted.

Jason takes a slow step forward, forcing himself to keep moving. The ventilation shaft is on the north east side of the building, and if he’s quick it’ll be a matter of moments to grapple up, duck inside and crawl through until he reaches the main entranceway.

Inside his head, the Joker is screaming in futile rage. But his screeches seem less piercing than they did before, the threat of his violence less awesome.

And there’s a new voice in there, the voice that persuaded him not to shoot Bruce, urging him on.

_It might be justice, but it isn’t right._

Jason grits his teeth and forces himself to run.

+

There’s an unopened pot of red paint on the floor beside the ventilation shaft, left behind like it’s waiting for him.

Jason takes up a brush between two gloved fingers, gives a smile that no one can see.

+

The end is close.

Scarecrow’s been broadcasting on-and-off for almost an hour, carefully building up a media frenzy to ensure the largest possible audience for the Batman’s grand unmasking. Bruce’s mobility is sorely limited, but Scarecrow has taken care to position the gurney to ensure that his captive could easily see most of the screens in the room, which are all tuned to different news channels.

Bruce twists his wrists inside the cuffs yet again in an attempt to loosen their hold, or at least weaken them slightly. The leather straps don't even have the good grace to creak under the exertion, and the large metal buckles holding them in place are too thick to break with only his bare hands.

But now, since he surrendered his gadgets, bare hands are the only weapon he’s got left.

He doesn't regret his decision. Tim and Gordon are still alive, kneeling in their corner of the room. It seems that Crane has forgotten that Bruce is not the only masked vigilante being held hostage in that room, and Bruce is thankful that Crane had not unmasked Tim Drake on live television simply because he could. Scarecrow has left the other two alone so far, choosing to spend the time taunting Bruce instead.

So far, Bruce hasn’t said a word in reply.

In the past few seconds, Scarecrow had stepped away from them in order to answer a call. His voice was pitched deliberately low in order to keep Bruce from hearing his words, but the way his grip on the phone had tightened after a few seconds showed that whatever news he was receiving wasn’t good. After a final barrage of muttered instructions, Scarecrow ends the call and replaces the phone on the table.

“It would appear that the Arkham Knight has disappeared without a trace,” Scarecrow says, so quietly he could be talking to himself. The utter neutrality of his tone disguises his true feelings at the news: he could have been commenting on the poor weather that evening. Bruce holds his breath as Scarecrow takes a step towards him – he’s not concerned for himself, but for the safety of the other hostages in the room. “Would you happen to know anything about that?”

Bruce just stares back, impassive.

For a moment it seems like Scarecrow will push the question, but he simply sighs and backs away again. “No matter. There are others eager to take his place. Less single-minded, perhaps, less ruthless in pursuit of their goals, but ultimately... competent. You may die in the certainty that the battle for Gotham will continue, and that our side shall be victorious.

“I tire of your silence,” he continues in a harder tone. “It is time for the world to see you for what you truly are. A man who clads himself in the fears of others to make himself appear invincible, even as he cowers in terror at his own reflection.”

He steps behind the camera and fiddles with the controls until a tiny green light beside the lens starts to glow.

After an interval of a few seconds (a throng of reporters reaching for their earpieces, frowning, _we are now cutting live to_ –), an image of Batman strapped to the gurney gradually pops up on each screen in turn.

Scarecrow steps into frame, hands clasped together and head bent in a mannerism echoing the doctor he once was. On the TV monitors over his shoulder, tens of tiny Scarecrows do the same.

“People of Gotham, tonight marks the end of this charade you have insisted on playing out for all these years. The pretence that your city is safe, protected, watched over by a guardian who stalks the shadows and strikes terror into the hearts of all who face him.”

“It is time,” he continues, turning towards Bruce, “for that legacy of misplaced fear to end. Commissioner, I would like you to do the honours. Remove his mask.”

The look of pure outrage that crosses Jim Gordon’s face at that command would be humorous at any other time.

“I’ve done enough of your dirty work tonight, Crane,” he snarls. “Not this time.”

“Indeed,” Crane murmurs. In one smooth motion he draws a gun and points it at Gordon, who glares back at him, defiant.

The sacking covering Scarecrow’s mouth twitches into a half-smile as he pulls back the hammer and then slowly, deliberately, shifts his aim to the right.

“No!” Gordon starts, leaning forward. “Wait –”

The rasp of a single gunshot echoes against the high ceilings of the atrium.

Tim falls forward, curling in on himself, and for a moment all Bruce can see is Jason flat on his back with his eyes wide open.

_Not again._

“Robin?” he says hoarsely, and goes weak in relief when Tim gives a sharp nod in reply, teeth gritted. The shot hit him just below the chest – Tim’s body armour is designed to be resistant to gunshots, like Bruce’s own, but not even Fox’s genius could stop a bullet from that kind of range. At best, most of the ribs on Tim’s left side would be cracked, if not broken. At worst the bullet might have hit a major organ (most likely the liver, judging by the position, although it could have grazed a lung). Either way, Tim needs immediate medical treatment. Unfortunately the only person in the building with a medical qualification is the psychopath holding them all at gunpoint.

 “I won’t ask again, Commissioner,” Scarecrow continues in that same calm tone. “Take off his mask, or my next shot will kill him.” He raises his arm slightly, so the barrel of the gun is pointing directly at Tim’s bowed head.

Gordon shoots him a glare of pure hatred, but a twitch of Crane’s finger on the trigger seems to show him how useless his show of defiance is. He stands up and starts walking towards the gurney at a snail’s pace, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“It’s alright, Jim,” Bruce says.

“It’s _not_ alright!” Gordon replies, voice frantic. “If these people find out who you are –”

“Jim,” Bruce interrupts, “You need to trust me.”

Something in Bruce’s voice must convince him, because Jim stands up straighter and takes a final step forward. “You know I’m sorry,” he says quietly, before reaching out and placing one hand on either side of the cowl.

Above Gordon’s head there’s a slight movement, and Bruce’s eyes dart upwards. There’s an almost imperceptible gleam of red hovering above an overhanging ledge, its shine too clear to be anything but glass or a material with similar reflective capacities. As though realising their mistake the figure hesitates and moves back into the shadows, and the gleam disappears.

Bruce is still trying to puzzle out what the reflection could possibly have been coming from (to his certain knowledge, he doesn't have any secondary alarm systems installed in that area) when another dot of light emerges from the darkness, this time in a scarlet beam. It lances towards Bruce, quivers in the air, and Bruce realises he’s staring down the scope of a sniper rifle.

For a second that seems to last an eternity, the beam traces a thin line across Bruce’s forehead. He can sense the mocking half-smile that must be on Jason’s face right now.

_Gotcha, Bats._

He has absolutely no idea if Jason will kill him or not.

Gordon spots the laser and whips his hands away from the cowl as though he’s been burned. “What the –”

Scarecrow sees it too and his eyes narrow but before he has time to voice a question (or worse, pull the trigger), the beam snaps down to the metal buckles fastening Bruce’s cuffs in place, in a move so fluid that Bruce has no doubt that it was what Jason had intended to do all along.

One perfect shot is all it takes to snap the hinge holding one cuff in place (and while Bruce will argue against the morality of using guns for as long as his body draws breath, a detached part of his mind has to admire the pinpoint accuracy of Jason’s aim). With the applied strength of both hands, breaking free of the other is child’s play.

Crane stumbles back, eyes wide. “How –” he manages to choke out before Batman’s gloved fingers wrap firmly around his throat, hoisting him bodily into the air. With a vicious satisfaction that a vigilante motivated solely by the pursuit of perfect justice should not feel, Bruce twists him round and flings him through the air, sending him flying into the tripod. The video camera falls against the stone floor, and every news channel in Gotham is suddenly broadcasting the same shot of an empty gurney viewed sideways through a cracked lens. Crane lands in a crumpled heap, and makes a weak attempt to push himself onto his hands and knees before finally passing out.

There’s a breath of perfect silence in the room, a moment of pure relief.

One by one, the news reports cut away to the faces of various confused-looking news reporters, caught in the lurch.

“Thank God,” Gordon breathes quietly. On his way over to Tim he stamps down on the broken camera, smashing it to pieces.

When Bruce checks over his shoulder, the ledge is empty.

There’s a light flashing on his gauntlet and a dull beeping in his ear, indicating that an emergency call is waiting, but for the moment Bruce ignores it. Tracking Jason down is more important.

He peers up at the ledge and turns on the environment analysis inside the cowl with a flick of his finger, but the initial scan of the area glows blue, revealing no trace that anyone was ever up there. He had surrendered the grapple gun along with the rest of his gadgets and the brickwork around the upper floors is crumbling, far too unstable to climb, so he has no way of reaching that part of the room. Although the analysis does pick out the empty square of an open ventilation shaft through the shadows, which must be how Jason got in.

When Bruce looks down again he spies something small and thin that’s been deliberately dropped onto the ground beneath the ledge, in the centre of a small puddle of what Bruce mistakes, for a heart-stopping second, for fresh blood, but actually turns out to be red paint.

Bruce picks up the paintbrush in a hand that carefully doesn't tremble and stares down at it for a few seconds.

“Who was that?” Gordon asks from behind him, one arm cradled around Tim. “Your friend, the one with the gun?”

 “Not a friend,” Bruce says quietly. “Not anymore.”

Gordon frowns at that, opening his mouth, but before he can ask again Tim tries to move and lets out a pained hiss. In an instant, Bruce is at his side.

“Get him to a hospital,” he instructs Gordon, who nods and reaches for the phone Crane left on the table. To Tim: “I’m sorry, Robin. For everything.”

The smile Tim gives him in reply is tight with pain and more than a little irritation, and is probably closer to a grimace than anything, but Bruce will take what little goodwill he can get.

He turns away again and, steadying himself, accepts the emergency call.

“Bruce?” Dick's voice bleeds through the earpiece. He sounds uncharacteristically worried, and Bruce’s eyes narrow in concern. “I saw the TV broadcast, are you OK? Is Tim?”

“I’m fine,” Bruce reassures him. “Robin will be. Where are you?”

“Rooftop on Founder’s Island. I was trying to track your location, but it looks like someone hijacked our systems and scrambled the software. Barb’s only just managed to get basic communications back online.”

_Jason_ , Bruce thinks. He mustn’t have wanted anyone to reach the Asylum before him and steal his thunder.

At the thought of Jason Bruce’s grip on the paintbrush tightens, until he’s in danger of snapping the plastic handle in two. “I’ll meet you there, Nightwing. Something else has happened.”

“What is it?” Dick's voice, previously nervous, takes a turn into real panic. Batman _never_ requests in-person meetings.

Bruce takes a deep breath, finally says, “It’s about the Arkham Knight. There’s something you need to know.”

+


End file.
